


It's hard for me to breathe but it's okay because it is for you too.

by arcticmaggie



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: And Morgan - Freeform, Aunt May is mentioned, Gen, also peter kind of gets hurt, and Ned, and Tony - Freeform, and doesn't want to talk to anybody, basically like within a month of tony's funeral, but i suck at writing so someone write it better pls, but its not too bad!!, but its not too graphic hopefully, but pre far from home, but sam finds a way, happy as well, mentions of panic/anxiety attacks, peter is very sad, post Endgame, sorry for making him go thru so much, steve is alive and well but retired, too short to convey all the emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 20:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19776034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcticmaggie/pseuds/arcticmaggie
Summary: Peter really hates nights like these.Nights where it becomes too much.Or, Peter is in the midst of his greatest grief, and isn't getting any better because of his refusal to talk to anyone. But the new Cap finds a way to at least let him finally breathe again.





	It's hard for me to breathe but it's okay because it is for you too.

**Author's Note:**

> this idea has just been stuck in my head since the release of infinity war (but back then, I thought Steve was going to die too ahh) and now that i know that far from home isn't actually IMMEDIATELY after endgame, i can make this a headcanon to settle my urge for angst.

Peter really hates nights like these.

Nights where it becomes too much.

He’s hunched down, sitting on the edge of one of the skyscrapers close to the Tower. The strong wind of the cold night and the faint car honks from down below don’t seem to make much noise. Not enough to mask the way Peter is heaving heavily with short ragged breaths. There’s a whimper every few secondsㅡevery time he thinks he’s calming down, a sudden flash of red and gold brings his tears back up to surface.

These nights aren’t as common anymore. Before, they would occur almost every 24 hours, the same tightening in the chest as Peter’s mind would flash back to that day. The day they won. The day Tony saved everybody.

The first two weeks, he stayed in his room, locking the door so that Aunt May wouldn’t see him like this. She was already going through enough, with the new house, her job search and all the other new problems that have arisen for everyone who was blipped five years previously. She didn’t need to see him curled up into the corner of his bed, trying to get as far away from the Iron Spider suit in the opposite corner, tugging recklessly at his strands of hair as his tears blurred his vision. She didn’t need to hear him silently plead under his breath for peace, memories invading his head of the last two times he was in Mr. Stark’s arms. He was an absolute mess and he didn’t want her to see that. Didn’t want anyone to see that.

Happy doesn’t get the memo. He constantly attempts to check on the boy. Although, it’s only through phone calls as of recently, considering what happened the first and last time Happy actually showed up to his house a few days after Tony’s funeral. He made small talk with May in the living room as Peter paced in his room to try and calm his nerves before stepping out to talk to him. And Peter appreciated it in the moment; he can’t imagine what Happy was going through as well.

But as he walked out of his room with soft steps and peeked around the corner into the living area, he saw Morgan sitting quietly and calmly next to Happy, smiling widely up at May as she complimented her dress. And Peter shut down. 

The same crushing feeling resurfaced around his lungs, around his heart, as he looked down at the little girl and saw nothing but the man that died right before his eyes. He paced back into his room and shut it closed, the noise being loud enough for the trio on the other side to know that Peter was not coming out at all. So, since then, Happy has resorted to texts and phone calls, inviting him over for coffee or take-out at the Tower. But Peter can’t step into the Tower. Not yet. He can swing by onto nearby buildings, staring from a distance. But that’s it. There’s an invisible barrier, controlled by his heart, between him and the remaining 100 yards from the Tower that keeps him from venturing any closer. 

Ned understands though. Of course, Ned understands. He knows Peter too intimately to not understand that he needs space. So after their first reunion, when all those who blipped were still trying to find their way back to their loved ones, and Peter cried in Ned’s arms without saying anything except “You’re not gone,” Ned understood that he needed to be left alone for a while. Since then, he’s texted ever so often about funny interactions he’s had with strangers and sends selfies of himself with his new Battle Star Galactica set.

And God, Peter loves Ned so much. He loves that he knows him so well and doesn’t add onto the already heavy weight on his shoulders. His random texts every day about the churros he buys and the two bucks he found on the street bring a smile to his face, albeit small. And whenever he feels his chest get fuzzy, he calls his number and Ned knows that it’s time to recount another pointless story in order to distract him from the darkness. 

But tonight, Peter left his phone charging, and he’s found a way to disconnect Karen from his suit so that he didn’t have another voice trying to get into his head. So he’s alone, in the night, in the dark. On top of a skyscraper 120 yards away from the Tower. And all he can feel is hurt. In his heart and in his mind and all over his body. 

Bruises are already forming on his legs and his left ribs, evidence of the rough beating he went through tonight. It was just another nightly call to a robbery, an antique store in Flushing that apparently had some china of sorts that was worth more than $12,000. Peter took this as any other excuse to leave the house, quickly fleeing May’s attempt to have him sit with her for late night dinner. It seemed like any other call as well, a group of 4 men whom half were quick to escape the scene as soon as Peter made his presence known. But the other two had other intentions. They held their place as Spider-Man swooped in and began to attack the thieves, both revealing their above average combat skills. It seemed like they’ve expected him, their movements calculated to counter Peter’s overhead attacks. 

It didn’t bother Peter though. Sure, he halted his actions for a quick second after one of them successfully dodged a pretty powerful kick of his. But there was no way they were going to outmatch him, he thought. They were local chumps trying to cop a few bucks. Peter had no doubt that this fight will fly by quickly.

But then one of them spoke. 

Peter had just punched him into the wall and the bearded man spit out blood as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Look at you. Tony’s little prodigy,” he spat, a menacing smirk plastered on his lips. Peter stopped in his tracks. “He would be proud of how strong you’ve become.” Peter gulped and felt a small tug. He began to walk over to the man to knock him out once and for all. The man’s smirk widened and his next words echoed throughout the small store.

“Just not strong enough to keep him from dying.”

Peter couldn’t breathe. He halted in his steps and widened his eyes at the man. He could feel his throat begin to close up and the walls of the shop began to seem closer than they were before. It felt silent to him, nothing else making noise but the harsh beating of his heart and his breathing. It only lasted a few seconds though, before he fell to the ground from a massive BANG to his head. The other man had snuck up behind him and smashed a vase into him, and as Peter tried to process what had just happened, he toppled onto him and began to throw punches left and right onto his chest and his sides. 

Peter was having a hard time trying to react to what was happening. He could only see red. At first, it was faint, only a flash of the color transitioning into his eyesight. His arms instinctively rushed to cover his body and reached up to land a hand around the man’s throat. But as quick as he got the man to stop his attacks to fight for air, the other man, the bearded one, from across the room suddenly appeared over his body and kicked right into his thigh. Peter cried out in agony and shock, his grip loosening up enough for the attacker on top of him to maneuver out of his reach. Now, with every kick to his thigh and every punch to his stomach, the red was becoming more present. What was once a soft light rose shade was now becoming a deeper crimson. Soon enough, that was all that he could see.

He doesn’t know how, doesn’t remember how, but Peter was able to escape under their hold in the next few seconds. He crawled out of that space, weakly lifting an arm to shoot a web on the doorway and swing out of the shop. It was a bit hard to swing from web to web, his entire body aching from the rough defeat he just endured through. He didn’t even have time to recognize that in the momentㅡthat this was a defeat. That the amateur men got the better of him and almost beat him out of his consciousness. And they’ll now get away with their theft, leaving the mom and pop shop $12,000 short in profit, thanks to Peter choking up over those stupid words. He wasn’t able to think about all this as he was swinging though; all he could do is blindly shoot a web and hope that it attaches itself to a building that he can’t see, given that all he can see now is red. And flecks of gold. Red and gold. 

Twenty minutes of swinging, an instinctive path determining where his palm reaches up for each building, and Peter’s here. Watching the Tower as it stands quietly before its eventual renovation with the new owners. He doesn’t know if he hates it or not; he doesn’t know if the eventual loss of anything reminiscent of Mr. Stark in that building is good or bad. Doesn’t know if his nights will get easier or worse than already. 

Peter finally thinks the episode is over; his breathing is evening out and his tear ducts seemed to have given out. Although, his heart hasn’t stopped racing, because as the silence of the night is engulfing Peter, he hears a quiet thud behind him. His body instantly freezes in place and his breath is hitched in his throat. 

“W-who’s there?” he calls out, stammering a little as his voice is raw from just previously crying. Silence is all that responds. He’s still facing the city, his back to the potential perpetrator. It takes a couple more seconds until another thud is heard, this time quite louder than before, breaking Peter out of his deer-in-headlights position. He jolts up out of his seat and quips around, crouching in a ready stance for anything sudden (although, given the state he’s in, it probably won’t help much). It takes another three seconds of staring into pitch black to make Peter’s voice crack as he shouts out, “Fucking show yourself!” And as if these were the magic words, a sudden figure begins to emerge from the shadows, behind a massive radiator to the left of Peter.

Peter is squinting into the darkness, cursing himself for not thinking clearly as his mask is still in his hands, no longer protecting his identity. He should have shoved it back on when he still had his back to the figure, he thinks. He wouldn’t be having this same problem if he used his Iron Spider suit instead of the old one, if he didn’t panic every time he came anywhere close to the suit he wore when he saw Tony last. But then as quick as the thought flashed through his mind, it decimates, as the person walks out enough for the moonlight to reflect their skin.

It’s Cap. 

Well, it’s Sam.

Peter is taken aback. He hasn’t had contact with the new Captain America since the funeral. And really, they didn’t really have time to sit down and chat, given the circumstances. Plus, the battle against Thanos never really saw them work together, even though he would occasionally swing by Sam fighting in the air. So in reality, the last time they had truly interacted was in Germany when both Sam and the Winter Soldier were trying to knock him out unconscious. 

The sound of the wind picks up as it clashes with the sound of Sam’s heavy steps; he’s in his Falcon suit, clearing up how he was able to reach the top of the skyscraper with no access from below. “What’s wrong,” Peter questions, “Did something happen?” He’s now starting to regret uninstalling Karen because he can’t get any updates on crimes outside of his city without physically patrolling outside of the city.

Sam shakes his head and continues walking forward until he’s next to Peter, swiftly moving to sit down on the edge of the building all the same. Peter is still very confused at his presence but turns back around to sit as well.

“Well then, what?” Peter persists.

Sam sighs out. “Happy told me you haven’t been answering his calls.”

Peter shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “What’s it to ya?” he spits out. Sam simply chuckles at his stubbornness, shrugging and looking out at the night. It’s silent. Peter can almost hear Sam psychoanalyzing and picking out his brain from beside him, even though he’s not looking directly at him. “I’m not going to talk to you alright,” he exclaims, “So go back to Happy and tell him I don’t need a babysitter.”

Sam raises his hands in defense. “Can’t a man just sit here with his colleague and catch his breath for a while?” he inquires calmly, a careless ease present in his words. Peter glares at him. Sam stares back with a knowing smile. It makes the younger boy scoff and shake his head, looking out into the night in front of him. He wasn’t going to talk to him, not a chance that that was going to happen. So he stayed quiet. And so did Sam. They sat there and listened to the car horns and the gusty wind. 

And that’s how they stayed for the next 20 minutes, pensive and calm.

Peter jumped a bit in his spot when Sam finally spoke up from beside him. “I still can’t wear the suit, you know,” he reflects. Peter holds his breath as he furrows his eyebrows at the odd confession. “It’s justㅡI’m called out to a mission, and the suit is right there, in the office, ready for me to put on andㅡI just can’t. It feels like it’s a disservice to him. To Steve.” He pauses, letting his head drop down to stare at his twiddling fingers, swallowing a bit loudly. “He gave me the shield. He wanted me to continue his work. And don’t get me wrong, I feel so fucking honored for him to choose me. It’s amazing to know that I’m the new face of the nation, you know? The amount of representation I’m giving to every small black kid in New York. Hell, the country. And yet, as I hold the shield in my hand, all I want to do is just give it back to Steve and say ‘I can’t continue your legacy; it’s you who’s the First Avenger, not me. It’s you who has sacrificed their body and soul for this country, ‘til the end of the line… I just can’t do this, I’m sorry.’” At this point, Peter has tilted his head just enough to center Sam in his line of vision. His eyebrows are furrowed even further as he stared at the man. He doesn’t dare interrupt the man beside him. Sam takes a moment to breathe in and out deeply, before continuing.

“I’m not ready to take on the suit. And it’sㅡit’s okay. I acknowledge that it’s okay for me to not be ready. Because eventuallyㅡeventually I will be. I will move on. I will overcome how hard this is for me and do what is expected from me. What is right.” He pauses and lets a small chuckle escape his lips. “But for now, I think I’ll stick to my Falcon suit. Baby steps.”

Peter didn’t know what to say. He was shocked Sam was being so open with him; they were practically strangers. Here he was, telling him what might be the most intimate feelings he’s held in his heart since the day Steve Rogers passed down the biggest responsibility Peter can quite possibly think of. Knowing that Sam could not handle wearing his new suit allowed Peter to catch his breath. He didn’t feel so bad now knowing that as he’s holding onto his old suit as long as possible, Sam is also; they’re both clinging onto their past, not ready to face their realities. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything at all. Just let the silence consume them once more.

It stayed like this for another hour. It got cold enough for Peter to feel his body go numb, but he welcomed it. It took away the pain of his bruised up body. And it cleared his head. At this point in time during these peculiar nights, a headache would usually form from his harsh crying, enforcing him to swing back home to curl up under the blankets and slip into unconsciousness, his pounding head promising the repeating horrid dream of the iron fist and the Arc Reactor that lost its light.   
But this time, it was different. Sam made it different. Peter was able to ground himself with his presence, with his words. So there was no headache at all. No vivid imagery looming in the back of his head. His mind was blank finally, ridden of any previous hurt and panic. Peter smiled at that. 

The smile was quickly wiped off his face, though, as he realized what had just happened. Sam got to Peter without having to force him to open up at all. In fact, he made it seem like Sam was the one needing to vent and a shoulder to lean on. His own discomfort in his life nudged its way into Peter’s mind and got him to forget about his for a while. 

Peter was begrudged. 

So much that he stood up quick, startling Sam a bit. 

“I’mㅡI have to go home,” he blurts out, staring down at the streets, not making eye contact. He hesitates before glancing over at Sam, who was already staring back at him with the same knowing smile as before. Sam knows of his accomplishment and it ticks Peter off a little bit. “Bye Sam,” he finally says, turning around completely and starts to run to the opposite edge, leaping off with a web shot onto the closest building. He disappears into the night, getting farther away from Sam, the Tower shining right behind his silhouette. 

Peter swings all the way home, crawling back into his window, not caring if he was being rowdy enough to wake up May. He cleans himself up the best that he could, wincing and groaning at the open wounds and the already deep in color bruises. In just a loose shirt and sweatpants, he treads under his bed sheets and closes his eyes, ready to face another dreadful day when he wakes from his never ending nightmares.

But, if he were to notice that tonight he ends up dreaming about Ned buying a thousand piece Lego Indiana Jones setㅡinstead of the usual soulless eyes of the man he held close to his heartㅡwell, it’s not like he had anyone to mention it to. Especially not the cocky son of a bitch that helped him breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this!!! sorry if it sucks ): i might write something else later, like a short little continuation of other nights that sam comes to help and becomes a big bro for peter because i live for that. i would appreciate feedback thanks!


End file.
